Musings on a Dead Stop
by EnlightenedSkye
Summary: An ongoing experiment that endeavors to answer the question: How many pairings can one fanfiction writer get out of a singular, nondescript episode from season two?
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hello again! Some of you may be familiar with me, EnlightenedSkye, as an RTP shipper and secondarily as an ATP shipper, but I can also see many pairings coming forth from this magnificent show. I am endeavoring to prove this to all of you. The premise is simple-take a simple, unassuming episode-like season two's Dead Stop-and see how many pairings I can write based on it. I'm not promising much, maybe about a thousand words each go around, but I will attempt to include every one of your suggestions. You may send me these via comment or private message, and I will do them, unless you give me something completely ridiculous like Phlox's Pyrithian bat and the repair station's computer. (Although I could see myself doing something absurd like that some time down the road, just for kicks and giggles.) I'll try to update this one every week, which is indeed less often that my other fic, which is updated sporadically every four or five days or so. This emphasis here is on quantity, although I'd love to stop on a nice round number, such as fifteen or twenty. Remember, these characters don't belong to me, but to Paramount. Without further ado, here's your first pairing. Also, what are you waiting for? Send me suggestions!

**Musings on a Dead Stop Part One**

**ATP**

Captain Jonathan Archer of the Earth ship Enterprise sat in his quarters, angrily pressing buttons at his computer console. Now faced with the idea that he and his crew may be a decade or more away from Jupiter Station and the familiar comforts of Earth, he had caved and done something he had previously thought that he would never have to do: ask Ensign Sato to transmit an open distress signal asking for any available assistance from any species, any ship—and this had dealt his pride a severe blow indeed.

_It was his fault that the so much damage had been inflicted on the ship in the Romulan mine field—exploration be damned! They should have just stayed on course, just the way they were. Now they were practically adrift in open space, soliciting help from god knows who with god knows what—_

"'Ya hear that?" He reacted to a sudden small noise behind him, swiveling his chair around to survey the deck plating. Immediately, his trusty beagle Porthos trotted over to him, his head tilted inquisitively. "I don't believe it," he addressed the quadruped, absentmindedly stroking his soft fur; "Trip told me he fixed that squeak!"

The comm button on his computer chimed and he reached behind him to answer it. "Go ahead."

There was nothing for a moment, and then a low, feminine voice. "Captain, we're receiving a response to the distress call."

Instantly, his stomach twisted up in knots and he found himself having to swallow back a massive lump in his throat. _Stop this, Jon, you're a grown man! _He chided himself silently before standing and taking several wide strides to the door.

On his way to the bridge, Jonathan took a few deep breaths, trying to absolve any remaining nerves that he had acquired listening to his Vulcan subcommander inform him of the latest developments. It was not the possibility of running into a species of ill company that had him so nervous; it was her voice. _Her damned voice._

He shook his head. Over the past year and a half, he had found himself growing more and more fond of T'Pol; although straight-laced and driven by protocol in the most severe sense, Jonathan could sense that she truly enjoyed what she did here on Enterprise and put an element of passion in everything that she completed. Yes, passion, that was what he felt. Passion and unrequited admiration for his Vulcan first in command.

_I wonder what a smile would look like on her face_, he found himself wondering, starting at the tips of her shapely lips and spreading upward to her elevated temples. He imagined that her bright hazel eyes, however luminous already, would light up and squint slightly. She would extend a delicate hand up to her mouth and clasp it there, all the while looking on at him with interest. All of the tension he had gotten used to seeing on her face was gone, instead replaced with a countenance of amusement and—what was that—attraction? _How beautiful she is,_ he mused, _even without the grin plastered there._

His stopped abruptly in his tracks a few feet from the turbolift that would take him up to A Deck, shaking his head like a dog out of a bath. _She's Vulcan, Jon, incapable of feeling the way that you do. At the most, she sees you as a child, someone that she has to constantly monitor and keep out of trouble. And those damn fraternization rules—it's impossible. Just forget it. Focus on the mission at hand._

All of his resolve was forgotten the moment he stepped onto the bridge and saw her there, poised gracefully at her station, hands arched over the controls. She raised her eyes to take in his face, her own expression nearly devoid of emotion…but not quite. His heart jumped into his throat and stayed there, for a moment thinking that he had seen a flicker of a smile. But perhaps it was only his imagination.

"It's a Tellarite freighter," she stated, once again business as usual. Her gaze fell to look at her computer console and the moment was lost in his memory, ready for him to replay in his mind over and over while laying, for this he was sure, sleepless in his bunk tonight. Alone, like always.

He set his lips in a firm line and opened his mouth to order, "Put them through."

Sub Commander T'Pol of Vulcan stepped quickly through the corridors of the NX-01 Enterprise, remaining steadfastly on the heels of her slight subordinate, Commander Charles Tucker, and her commanding officer, Captain Jonathan Archer. From their body language, the diminutive Vulcan could gather that they were nervous—she, too, was feeling an element of apprehension. The operators of this strange repair outpost had not responded to any of their hails. Upon closer examination, she found that she could not detect any biosigns on the station whatsoever. Then, her curiosity having been piqued, and she offered to accompany her colleagues on an impromptu survey of their new discovery.

Mr. Tucker, she noticed, walked with high steps, arms swinging, closely mimicking the posture of an animal on the human's homeworld known by the name monkey. Jonathan's gait was significantly shorter and more pronounced, bouncing slightly on his heels.

From her vantage point a few meters behind him, she examined him as his shoulders shifted from side to side. They were broad, perhaps even more so than many specimens of her own species. _An agreeable set of proportions_, the scientist noted, stepping to the side of him as he pressed the button that opened the door that would lead them into the repair facility. Her eyes drifted upwards to examine his face for a split second. Steely gaze, strong brow, square jaw—_an appealing set of facial features as well._ His eyes met hers and she quickly averted her gaze. Careful is what she had to be, cautious, unlike how she had been on the bridge earlier. Indulging in a moment of voyeurism during the Captain's arrival into the command chamber, she had felt her control inexplicably fail her for a few short milliseconds. She desperately attempted to conceal the smile that was now retreating across her face by returning her focus to the console in front of her.

It was true that she did partake in some illicit pleasure in surrounding herself with the Captain's company; his appearance was certainly aesthetically pleasing, a perfect example of human strength and stature. He was as rational as humans got, for this she was sure—level headed, yet unequivocally passionate about his work and his mission. These brief sparks of temper he exhibited were intriguing to say in the least, and the Vulcan officer would even wager to say that she felt a bit of attraction to Jonathan—Captain Archer, she advised herself. She was normally vigilant is monitoring these impulses, but in the past few weeks she had found herself coddling her irrational compulsions, imagining herself and the Captain in intimate, albeit compromising positions. Were humans' ears as erogenous as those of her own species? She did not know, but she was sure that these were urges that she must keep close to her heart, quiet, hidden, and never acted upon. Unless…

"This facility may have the technology to repair Mister Reed as well," now within what she imagined was one of the many chambers of the repair facility, she stated in a perfectly measured tone, tilting her chin up to look him in the eye.

His gaze was unmistakable, distinct, penetrating. It unnerved her. It shook her from within. It…aroused her. At the same time…it calmed her._ I might never be able to look away_, she thought. _He is an enigma. He is magnetic. He is—_

"The analysis of your vessel is now complete." A computerized voice drew his attention away from her and to a screen that had just slid out from the wall. He, along with his companions, took a step towards it.

_Crisis averted,_ she found herself thinking, _now on to the next matter at hand._


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Here's your second pairing, a fluffy, substance-free R/S tag dedicated to the goddess of missing scenes and alternate universes, the extremely talented LoyaulteMeLie! I really hope to impress you with this. I would like to thank all of you for your enthusiastic reviews, private messages, and emails...I already have eight other suggestions to work with! Next week, be prepared for a dose of TnT or Hovis; depends on which develops itself faster. I could always use more pairings-send away! Thanks as always for putting up with the lame and unentertaining ramblings of a bored high school student. And now, like many fanfiction writers before me, I leave you with one simple request: read and review.

**Musings on a Dead Stop Part Two**

**R/S**

Lieutenant Malcolm Reed crawled on his hands and knees through the access tube, bowing his head every few seconds to keep from injuring it on several low-hanging attachments of the wall. A dull ache had already begun to manifest itself in his hips and lower back, and a sharp pain was creeping its way up his side on its way to his shoulder. Knowing that it was inadvisable to stop for any reason, he opted to express his pain through a series of grunts and gasps, which for everything seemed like a reaction to the ongoing display of exertion he was now enduring. Twisting his head to the side, he was able to ask his accomplice, "Are you _sure_ this is the right direction?"

Although Commander Tucker had managed to open his mouth to deliver his response, he had no time to verbalize the remark, as with the sudden blaring of an alarm overhead, the bulkhead before them began to close. The men stopped, sitting back on their haunches for a moment, before exchanging a wide-eyed look. So much was conveyed in that split second; like two children being caught with their hands in the cookie jar, their expressions were of dread and astonishment. In tandem, as if their bodies were controlled by the same mind, they turned and reversed their course. The hatch that was now behind them sealed with a harsh click, and the two men barely managed to make it five meters before the ground vanished beneath their feet.

Malcolm felt oblivion only for a moment, nothing that felt like his atoms being taken apart and reassembled, but simply a pleasant…naught. This sensation was short lived as he soon found himself landing on the deck plating of the bridge in the same hunched over position, his knees thudding dully on the carpeting. Trip, however, wasn't so lucky; he had the misfortune of landing halfway off of the dais that the Captain's chair sat on, the right side of his body sliding down even further. He heard his companion grunt as he shifted his weight, desperately trying to deflect as much of the impact as he could elsewhere. Letting out an audible grunt, he glanced up, discovering that he had, indeed, returned to the bridge of the Enterprise.

Half a second later, Trip peeked upwards, just in time to see Sub Commander T'Pol rise slightly in her seat, regaling them with a blank stare that only thinly veiled her contempt. As Trip greeted her with a half-hearted, "Evenin', Sub Commander," she regarded them with an eyebrow raised almost imperceptibly before returning her attention to her console.

Malcolm sat back on his heels, avoiding her penetrating, however temporary, gaze. As his scope of vision widened, he became aware of yet another onlooker curious of their current situation.

Ensign Hoshi Sato had rotated around in her seat, leaning back into it and crossing her legs at the kneecap. A delicate hand rested on the inside of either elbow, and her forgotten headset dangled, looped loosely around one ear. A small smirk graced her features as of late, and her voice was soft in tone as she inquired, "What have you two boys been up to?"

Malcolm could feel a crimson blush spread across his cheeks; it was bad enough to have been silently chided by the Vulcan first officer, but to face the berating of their rapturous communications officer? _Mortifying._ Rising slowly to his feet, he ran his fingers over his rumpled uniform. His every digit had suddenly become ice cold.

"Oh, we jus' took in a little lunch on the repair station," Trip replied casually, offering her a disinterested shrug.

"Really? I returned from there about ten minutes ago, and I could have sworn that I didn't see you two when I left." She tilted her head, attempting and failing to keep the smile off her face.

Trip returned her grin, placing his hands on his hips and quickly sweeping his gaze over the bridge, as if on duty shift rather than moments away from a firm reprimand. _Only he could act so innocent when so obviously guilty,_ Malcolm thought bitterly. The silence in the room at that moment was palpable.

Turning his attention back to the attractive Japanese woman sitting only a few feet away, he managed to stammer, "And how was your meal, Ensign?"

He could have sworn that she just winked at him, and he could feel the proverbial butterflies rising in his stomach. "Just fine, Lieutenant. However, I have a feeling that you two had a more_ interesting_ time on break than I did."

His mouth dropped open and he once again found himself grappling for a possible reply. Thankfully, Trip had something to say to her. He always did. "There ain't no harm done, Ensign Sato, just a little bit of exploration."

Malcolm glowered at him. Given the choice, he would rather postpone the moment when they would have to stand in front of Captain Archer and answer for their rather inadvisable course of action. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Sub Commander reach behind her to the comm device on the wall.

"Exploration, hmmm? Care to share?" She was leaning forward across her console, clearly demonstrating her interest in the situation.

Malcolm elbowed him sharply, and he yelped in surprise. At that moment, Malcolm was endlessly grateful for the Commander's inherent ability to catch on. He held up two hands towards the young woman, assuring her: "Ah, no, this was all my idea, Hosh. Jus' tryin' to get a better look at what kinda computer that station has and I had to go and talk Mal into it—"

"Commander!" He exclaimed in shock, equally dazzled by Trip supreme lack of nondisclosure. Embarrassing him in front of such a fascinating young woman, using such improper and unprofessional address, and _now—!_

"The Captain will see you now," Sub Commander T'Pol interrupted his train of thought, gesturing towards the sealed doors of Archer's ready room. Malcolm's heart sank at the same time that a cold swear broke out along his brow. He looked desperately between the Vulcan woman and Ensign Sato, silently begging for some sort of assistance.

Hoshi offered him a sympathetic smile, shaking her head. "Good luck in there, Lieutenant." As he and Commander Tucker trudged reluctantly up the few steps that would lead them to their fate, she called, "If you would like to join me later, perhaps we could do a little bit of exploration of our own at the repair station over dinner?"


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Hello again. If you haven't already figured it out, some of these little ficlets take place in different micro-universes, although some of them do make sense when put together. Here's your Hoshi/Mayweather fix, requested by Hummingbird2. Have you guys read some of her work? It's really very good. If you've some time on your hands, visit her archive. Side note-I may have skewed the storylines a little-if you noticed, in my R/S ficlet, Hoshi returned to duty after her dinner with Travis. In this AU, they ate after her shift. Make sense? Oh well, it all with next week when I take on...(drum roll please)...Phlox/Cutler. Read and review, my lovely ENTers.

**Musings on a Dead Stop Part Three**

**Hovis**

Ensign Hoshi Sato had been lying sleepless on her bunk, as she did most nights, when she heard a sudden commotion outside the walls of her quarters. To her, it sounded like several crewmen loudly arguing, followed by the metallic creak of the joints of the disused gurney that was kept in sickbay in case of emergencies. Rolling out of bed with a grunt, she wrapped her robe around herself, shielding her sweatpants and loose tee shirt from view as she pressed the button that would open the door of her quarters.

The first person she saw was Commander Charles Tucker, hair tousled and hands waving as he plied the Enterprise's stoic first officer, the Vulcan woman T'Pol, with what was most likely one of his more interesting "theories". The female Commander only acknowledged Hoshi's appearance with a curt nod before turning her attention back to Trip, who was saying, "I'm telling you, someone must have called him down there—"

Upon noticing Hoshi, Tucker paused and turned back to her, his expression suddenly painfully strained. "Hoshi—" he began in a hushed voice, before Lieutenant Reed passed by, hooking his arm by his elbow and pulling him forward. Looking in the direction in which the British armory officer had come, her breath was nearly taken away.

Laid out on the stretcher, his face resigned and serene, was Travis. Phlox's normally gung-ho assistant, Ensign Elizabeth Cutler, pushed the handles of the cart while the good doctor flanked her on her left side. One look at Liz's downcast face and she knew. Letting out a short gasp, she fell back into her quarters, the door sliding shut before her.

Riding the wave of a sudden emotional response, her knees buckled underneath her and she fell to the ground, her body suddenly racked with powerful sobs. The young Ensign was taken aback by how fast her tears had spilled forth, causing her body to slump forward and her resolve to all but vanish. Travis was dead. She knew it. Every fiber of her being was forcing her to face the unflinching reality that the man she loved was no longer.

What had happened? It had only been eight hours ago when, finding themselves at the end of their respective duty shifts, they had agreed to meet at their repair station for dinner. Hoshi had been looking forward to it all day; any time spent with the helmsman was valuable and unique in its own way.

It had been easy to bond with the young man in the first place; being of the same rank and the two youngest members of the bridge staff, they had often been assigned the same tasks, working in a close proximity to where there was not much to do except for get to know someone. Mayweather, having been raised on a cargo ship, felt relaxed and comfortable in such a stressful atmosphere; in fact, he had been the one crewman to really make significant strides towards helping Hoshi get over many of the phobias that plagued her about living on a starship. They had spent a great deal of time together, whether it be at one of the infamous Tucker-organized movie nights in the mess hall; exercising in the gym, Hoshi demonstrating several of the less complex aikido moves to her eager counterpart; or engaging in a bit of friendly competition in the weekly poker games that the ensigns down in engineering hosted. Yet somehow, somewhere in the midst of all the friendly get-togethers and pretense-free nights spent in each other's company, Hoshi had fallen in love.

She surmised that it had been shortly after her return to the ship after a brief foray of shore leave on Risa. Feeling some remnants of guilt after spending the night with an alien man that she had only just met, she was shocked to hear that Ensign Mayweather had been injured while rock climbing on the southern continent. Seeing him so weak and helpless had had some sort of effect on her; at the time she had chalked it up to simple compassion and concern for the well-being of her friend, but now she realized that the incident had sewn the first seeds of affection.

After Travis had recuperated and the Enterprise was on its way again, Hoshi began to observe him more closely. The seating arrangement on the bridge allowed for that quite conveniently; she was nearly constantly in view of the helmsman's lovely profile. There was no denying that he was attractive; his very proximity caused her to blush, warmth spreading up from her toes to her delicately sloped temples. There was no denying that he was passionate, yet caring and gentle at the same time; his adept skillfulness at piloting the ship, twisting and turning it away from any and all obstacles was enough of an indicator. There was no denying that he was fun-loving and carefree—his frequent propensity for practical jokes told her that. She was not sure if he felt the same way for her, but she had sworn that one of these days she would confront him about it, perhaps during one of the many evening meals that they shared together.

She had been so close to asking him tonight—the atmosphere and mood had been right. But, something had stopped her in her intent, be it circumstance or her own lack of courage. He was laughing at something she had just said or a joke she had just told. Glancing up from her plate, she found herself looking directly into his eyes. Giving pause, his baritone chuckle stopped abruptly as he returned her gaze. For a brief moment, she was afraid that she would get lost, wandering aimlessly in the optical clutches of his rich brown irises for the rest of the night. Suddenly, he reached for his glass of water, his regard falling away from her and down to the table before them.

The moment had been broken, and Hoshi cleared her throat, embarrassed that she had allowed herself to become so incredibly flustered. At the same time, she silently cursed herself for not having the courage to speak up at that moment—_Sato, you're still the same chicken that you ever were!_ She would have to ask him some other time.

Now, crawling a few meters away so that the chronometer on her desk was in plain view, she saw that it was only a few minutes after 0230 hours. Sometime between 1900 and now, this unspeakable tragedy had occurred. If she could never let Ensign Travis Mayweather know the depth of her affections for him, she could at least seek closure and knowledge as to what horrific event had taken him away from her. Standing on shaky legs, she threw her shoulders back and narrowed her gaze. Proceeding to her closet to withdraw a clean uniform from a hanger, she surreptitiously wiped the wetness from under her eyes with the sleeve from her robe. This is what he would have wanted; Travis had always encouraged her to be strong in whatever situation she encountered. And she would endeavor to carry on without him, whether her ingrained desires for a relationship with the man were fulfilled or not. But, now—now was not the time to think about any of that.

It was time to pay Doctor Phlox a visit.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I'm sorry for the delay, everyone. My muse has been largely silent over the past few weeks. I've been going through a lot of personal drama-the death of a friend, my grandfather having his third stroke, and my aunt and her family being affected by the recent tornadoes in Oklahoma. However, I'm leaving tonight for an all new adventure. All of this week, my marching band and I will be opening and closing Disney World with parades in various parks. I don't expect a lot of time to write, so the next chapter of RDWO will have to wait until I get back. I hope that you understand-I'm trying to push these things out, but I'm not exactly in any position to do so right now. Pray for my family and I, send good vibes and the like.

On to the chapter. What's a fluffy series of ENT ficlets without TnT? About five of you requested it, and I'm poking fun at myself by staging the bulk of this around the same times as the ATP chapter of the story. Like many ENT fans, I first shipped TnT and then gradually moved on and branched out. Writing this was fun, and I got to visit my old haunts for research-HoT, TriS, and the like. I know that this isn't what you were promised for this chapter, but I beg of you to bear with me. I apologize for any typos, as I'm leaving in a few hours and I'm in a rush.

I end this author's note with this parting thought, a dedication to a roleplaying friend that every member of the USS Tumblr loved and lost. RIP Jules. We have been and always shall be your friends.

**Musings on a Dead Stop Part Four**

**TnT**

She is standing close to him on his right, almost unbearably so. If he were to side-step a fraction of a meter in either direction, he was sure that he would collide with her, the fabric of their uniforms creating friction between two warmed entities. It didn't help that her presence was neither inconspicuous nor subtle; her very scent pervaded his senses and filled him with a distinct feeling of desire, of longing, of—what was that? _Frustration?_

_Yes,_ Trip decided, subconsciously shifting from his left foot to his right;_ that was what it must be._ However, his sudden and inexplicable distraction couldn't be entirely blamed on the incidence of the attractive woman beside him; there were certainly auxiliary factors left to account for. Perhaps the fact that he felt so helpless in such a dire situation had something to do with it. After surveying the damage done to the port portion of the ship that housed the impulse manifolds, Commander Tucker found himself filled with an unpleasant sensation akin to hopeless and unequivocal defeat. What was a chief engineer without a fully functioning warp drive? What use would he and his motley crew of recent Academy graduates be if they were to come upon the Romulans once again?

He, too, had been a bit skeptical at the thought of accepting the ill-begotten counsel of a Tellarite freighter, but once the repair station came into view, he experienced a surge of adrenaline, a wave of optimism and expectancy. Herein might lie his redemption—by salvaging spare parts from this repair station that appeared to be abandoned, he and his team might be able to recover the engines yet. His suggestion of boarding was quickly shot down, however, by the confirmation of a certain Vulcan first officer.

"I'm detecting a liquid helium atmosphere," she reported, her voice slightly muffled by the swiveling motion of her upper body as she rotated around to face the Captain. Pressing a few buttons on her console, she continued, "The temperature is two hundred and seventy degrees below zero."

Trip's mouth fell open in surprise before snapping closed once again. Punctuating his grimace with a pair of raised eyebrows, he turned away from her. Casting a rather unprofessional glance of appraisal at the crewman on duty at Malcolm's armory station, he ruminated with dismay that it seemed that it was always her to ruin his moment to shine, his firmly held propositions or educated suggestions. Well aware that he was being childish, he reminded himself that the Sub-Commander was only doing her job, carrying out her assignment of counsel and advisory to the crew of the Enterprise. She meant no disrespect, although it often came across as that. Commander Tucker would have thought that once you had the ability to get to know someone for a year they became predictable, all of the little nuances and idiosyncrasies wholly anticipated by you. But as the month of April came and went and their second year aboard the Enterprise was now fast approaching, Trip had to acquiesce and admit that he would never be able to call himself an expert on the social habits of Vulcans. He might never even get close.

T'Pol was within herself an interesting character, but the way that she conducted herself around him made her an enigma. Sometimes there was a certain spark in her eye, a distinct spring in her step that only acted to convince Trip that there really was fire hiding under all that ice. In fact, he was positive that there was—he had seen her expression, studied the tense movements of her arms and shoulders as they had discussed the implications of her arranged marriage in her quarters some months ago. She was unwilling to give up her career, to devote her life to a man that she had only met a handful of times. However bound and constricted by such an all-encompassing learned cultural identity, she had resolved to remain devout to her traditions. However, she was still here, right? She had postponed her nuptials to linger on Enterprise, her motives and rationale classified to everyone but herself. Although she still maintained the carefully cultivated Vulcan façade that she always did, Trip couldn't help but cling on to the little bit of hope that he still had left—one day, he would finally discover what the fascinating woman was concealing from everyone around her. Underneath all of those layers of Vulcan control, he knew that there was a passion, an undeniable_ vibrancy_ to T'Pol. He couldn't have imagined it. _She had shared his pecan pie. She had come to movie night._

The inscrutable ways of the first officer were still on his mind as he stood beside her in the so-called "recreation facility", their attention focused on a rounded table before them. As they approached it, the inner rim of the furnishing had begun to glow, emitting a faint buzzing sound. Glancing down at her PADD, T'Pol confirmed, "A matter-energy converter."

Trip had leaned in close to her, ignoring the irrational sensation of tremors that her proximity always delivered him. There was no denying that the woman was beautiful; gorgeous, rapturous, stunning. As was his wont with any attractive woman, the chief engineer desired nothing more than to hold her, kiss her, and perhaps engage in some otherwise illogical activities with her. Even if a definitive layer of anti-fraternization legislation didn't already stand between them, there was the fact that she was Vulcan. _Come on, Tucker, she wouldn't even shake hands with you when you first met. What makes you think that she'd ever have romantic feelings for you—_

"Eh, could be a transporter," he was replied to her statement absently and was instantly confronted with what he privately referred to as The Brows of Doom. This was their routine._ Funny comment, logical rebuttal. Innocent musing, pointed retort._ It was true that he loved to see her reaction—something in the way that she tilted her head to one side or narrowed her eyes in assessment filled him with an unexplainable sentiment of triumph, almost as if he had managed to get away with something that he shouldn't have. Extending a hand towards the offending piece of technology, he rationalized, "What? An awfully _small_ one."

T'Pol inhaled quickly before directing her gaze at Captain Archer, who was approaching the table from his former position at the window. "I believe that it's a molecular synthesizer of some kind, similar to a protein re-sequencer, but far more advanced—" casting a reproachful glance over her right shoulder at Commander Tucker, she barely hesitating before declaring, "Water, cold."

Within the blink of an eye, a squat glass appeared before the officers in attendance. Wrapping her slender fingers around the lower portion of it, T'Pol raised the chalice to her lips. After swishing the liquid within slightly and flaring her delicate nostrils to intake its scent, she imbibed a bit of it between parted lips. Separating his attention from this methodical display of inspection for a moment, his eyes travelled up to the face of his friend, Jonathan Archer. With slitted eyes, he was observing her investigation. Before he knew it, the tumbler of water was once again within his line of vision and T'Pol was saying, "I saw a similar device on a Tarkalean vessel. It was capable of replicating almost any inanimate object."

All kinds of bells and whistles began to sound in Trip's head. Excitedly, nearly stammering over his words, he addressed the top of the Captain's scalp as he leaned over to examine the underside of the table in question. "If we had one of these in engineering, we could make all the spare parts we need." His palms had once again found the inside of his elbows, and his person vibrated minutely as his mind worked overtime to calculate the implications of acquiring such a piece of equipment.

As his cheek swiveled involuntarily to survey T'Pol's reaction to his statement, he persisted, "I wonder what else is on the menu." He desperately wanted to show her that he was able to make his own discoveries, that he was just as quick-witted as she was. Never mind that he had proven this time and time again; he relished the oft-displayed dismissal with an indication of an "acceptable" job. Tilting his shoulders to the side, he intoned, "One pan fried catfish."

There was the muffled clinking and shifting of mechanical parts, and then a plate heaping full of meal shimmered into view. Chuckling slightly and offering Captain Archer a crooked grin, he reached down to retrieve the platter. Lifting it to his nostrils, he confirmed, "Smells like the real thing." Using the proffered silverware to slice off a piece of the tender filet, he sniffed at it once more before depositing it in his mouth and chewing contemplatively.

After a few seconds, Jonathan prompted him, "Well?"

Trip admonished him with a mien of reassurance and gestured towards the foodstuffs with his fork. "Not bad."

Almost rhetorically, the Captain mused, "I doubt that there's a catfish within one hundred and thirty light years."

T'Pol inhaled so rapidly that she nearly scoffed. "Its genome is stored in Enterprise's computer, along with the recipe. It appears that the station scanned our database."

"It would have been nice to have been_ asked,_" Captain Archer was now behind them, approaching the door from whence they came.

Shaking his head and making small, contented sounds as he continued to eat, Trip turned his head towards the retreating figure. "Cap'n, you gotta try this."

"Thanks, but I think that I'll stick with what Chef's serving," stepping through the now-open doorway, he disappeared from view.

Nodding his assent, Trip turned his attention back to his meal, monitoring the movements of his female accomplice in his peripheral vision. When he met directly her curious gaze, she quickly averted her eyes. This did nothing but confirm the Commander's suspicions. He, Charles Tucker, was a case for inquisition to T'Pol of Vulcan, and there was no denying otherwise.

And for the moment existing, that was all he felt that he needed.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: I'm sorry, you guys. Since my last update, a very close friend of mine passed away in an extremely violent car accident. That, in addition to my own car being totaled due to another driver's carelessness, the death of an RP buddy, my grandfather's ongoing health issues, my aunt and her family's struggle to reestablish themselves after the Oklahoma tornadoes-I haven't exactly been at my best. Some good critique would do nicely right now. This arrives on the heels of some plot development for a Cutler ficlet that I'm planning to publish on what would have been Kellie Waymire's 46th birthday. I thought that I might as well introduce some headcanons that I have about her right now. (Yes, I do currently reside in Springfield, Missouri. Why do you ask? :P ) You'll learn more about her college days and her late mother in that ficlet; I'll also do a full dedication then.

I always casually shipped Phlox/Cutler. Admit it; they're freaking _adorable_ together. I've found a vein for this pairing; I've set this right after Hoshi and Jon leave to rescue Travis from the repair station. Phlox is left with nothing to do until they return. When he is in this state of nervousness...there's certainly only one woman to bring him out of his shell. (_Gawd._ That was a very cheap romantic comedy-esque description. Ugh. I haven't the effort to think of something better, so you'll all just have to deal.)

This was requested by my dear friend and beta BonesBird. Enjoy the update. Peace and long life. More requested pairings would be appreciated and rewarded with a kiss.

**Musings on a Dead Stop Part Five**

**Phlox/Cutler**

Crewman Elizabeth Cutler's otherwise peaceful slumber was interrupted by a sharp klaxon emitting from the communication device on the wall. At the time of the disruption, she had been in the middle of a rather vivid dream involving the planet where she and four other crewmen had become privy to the effects of a hallucinogenic organic compound, causing them to suffer from delusions of a mysterious race of aliens living inside the rock formations of the cave they had taken up temporary residence within. Although she and her colleagues had grown to deny the events of that night due to the sheer shame resulting from the acknowledgement of their irrational and insubordinate behavior, the young woman often found that when sleep often came, it was not without the same, familiar distended mixture of memories. It was certainly the most interesting thing that had happened to Elizabeth so far in this mission. Well—not including getting caught up in the telepathic web of a strange gelatinous creature that encompassed nearly its entire home world, playing hostess to a visiting Vulcan dignitary, and becoming ensnared inside of a Romulan mine field. However, she had to acquiesce; things like that _just didn't happen_ to the average person back in her hometown of Springfield, Missouri. Though many of her friends had expressed dismay at her demonstrated urges to enroll in a distant college and work towards a dual degree in exobiology and entomology, she could just imagine the expressions on their faces when she related her tales of even half of the things that she had been able to witness in just one year's time. _Yes, good old Liz Cutler, the toast and most treasured alumnus of Greene County High School_. She could just see it now—

"Phlox to Crewman Cutler," although the imploring request for a response came from a dear friend, she was reluctant to lift her head and untangle her bare legs from the spare sheets of her bunk. Squinting at the chronometer on a nearby table, she was able to discern that it was a few moments past 0300 hours. This was no social call; there must be an emergency of some kind. At the sound of feet heavily landing on the deck plating, her roommate, the tactical Crewman Lucia Rossi, regarded her with slitted eyes.

"What the hell—, "she mumbled in consternation, before Elizabeth managed to reach the prompt button next to the door. Holding up her index finger to act as a warning signal for her bewildered roommate, she punched the knob with more force than was necessary.

"Cutler here," she advised almost breathlessly, her heart rate escalating. Although she stumbled over the first few words, she managed to inquire, "Doctor, is something wrong?"

Across the room, Rossi fell into her pillow with a harrumph. Curling the soft bedding over her ears, she attempted to block out the encroaching sounds of the conversation. After working a sixteen-hour shift in the armory at Lieutenant Reed's behest in the stead of the actions of the repair station's uber-efficient machinery, pointlessly polishing and rearranging the Enterprise's vast collection of weaponry, she was in no mood to listen to her friend trade subtly flirtatious barbs with the ship's chief medical officer.

"Not at all—" he hesitated momentarily before changing his stance, _"yes,_ but not immediately. There is a matter that may require your attention when you have the time…that is to say, _as soon as possible—"_

Elizabeth sighed, using her middle finger to chase the remnants of sleep from the corners of her eyes. The Doctor did not often get as flustered as this, but when he did, he was invariably in the state to which some genial company would do him quite nicely. Though, what could there possibly be for Phlox to worry about? With the repair station putting the finishing touches on the restoration, with the summation of action occurring around 0330 hours, he should have been enjoying a peaceful, unharried night in sickbay along with his menagerie and experiments. Stifling a yawn, she halted his wandering train of thought. "I'll be right there, Doctor. Cutler out."

As she stumbled to the cramped closet to retrieve a clean uniform, she managed to strike her head against a low-hanging section of the bulkhead. Biting her tongue to keep a potent stream of four-letter words from rolling off of it, she struggled to free herself from the confines of her nightclothes. The frequencies of Phlox's social inquiries had certainly dropped off the cliff since the incident on Valakis—it would have been a strange occurrence for him to contact her twice in one week, let alone in the dead of night. There was certainly an argument to be made for intuition, and the heavy, sickening feeling that was currently settling in her gut was doing little to assuage her concerns for her Denobulan friend.

As she forced her legs into the tapered sheaths of her uniform, she attempted to divert her thoughts away from the particulars of that night. After several hours of collecting viral samples from the Menk, Elizabeth had found herself silently cursing Hoshi Sato as she excused herself from the conversation with a sly wink and a curt nod. As the Doctor began to inform her on the more colorful particulars of Denobulan relationships, she could feel her cheeks reddening. He had called her out on her advances! As if her intentions had been transparent, laden out for display for all to see! Who would have guessed that his people would be so damned…_perceptive?!_ As she struggled to maintain her composure in the wake of a distinctly awkward situation, she had concluded that Phlox was only trying to warn her of what she might be getting into—as usual, looking out for her well-being in his own sort of way. The only reasonable course of action—one that her late mother Margaret certainly would have approved of—would be to tell him the truth. That is what she had done, confirming his suspicions of her romantic overtures, however assuring him that she intended to take their relationship slowly. Nearly a year after the good doctor had taken her under his wing, she had to admit that there was still a lot that she did not know about the object of her affection. That would take time. On an extended mission such as this, that was nearly all they had.

Elizabeth had been hesitant to divulge her secret to any of her female friends for fear that they might have found her current situation amusing. Any girl could fall for the hunky guy, but it took a special type of woman to become infatuated with the wise, older uncle-like figure. Unlike many of her female colleagues, she couldn't fathom spending her time fawning over Commander Tucker, who lacked intellectual depth as far as she knew, or Lieutenant Reed, who was a bit too moody and ill-humored for her tastes. However, she surmised that a great deal of the crew had already deduced her level of involvement with Doctor Phlox; somewhere between all of the movie nights, lunches enjoyed in each other's company, and mornings working side-by-side in sickbay, it must have been pretty difficult to miss. The truth of the matter was that although she endeavored to be as mature about the state of affairs as she possibly could, being in his mere presence filled the pit of her stomach with the proverbial butterflies.

_Elizabeth Suzanne Cutler!_ She would silently scold herself, _you are twenty-seven years of age, hold two doctoral degrees, and could certainly stand to act more mature around this man than you are right now!_ No matter how often the chastisement occurred, her frustration continued to grow as she more and more frequently felt the illogical urge to tilt her head with rapt interest and giggle shyly behind her palm. As she had remained solely dedicated to her studies for most of high school and college, she was only then beginning to become familiar with how the attention of certain men could turn perfectly composed, well-balanced young ladies into tittling, servile, obscene—

Perhaps she was getting carried away.

Yanking her uniform's zipper up to her chin, she dashed to the door of her quarters, slipping through just as quickly so as not to further disturb her already disquieted roommate. Turning to her right, she entered the turbolift and punched the button which indicated Deck C. Sickbay was situated almost perfectly in the middle of the ship, its location rendering it one of the safest locations to work in a firefight. Although the mildly stubborn young lady would have been hesitant to admit it, she still found herself flinching every time the deck underneath her feet shuddered even a fraction of an inch. _'Things could always be worse'_ grew to become her silent mantra, and she found herself uttering it time after time.

As the doors of the turbolift slid open, Elizabeth was taken aback by an unusual sight; traveling abreast with wide, expansive strides, the Captain and Hoshi were approaching her from around the corner.

"Captain, if only I could—" it seemed that Hoshi had reverted back to her former, tense countenance that she had sported at the very beginning of the mission, wringing her hands and knitting her well-arched eyebrows together.

"Go back to your quarters and get some rest." Jonathan Archer muttered, his focus clearly elsewhere.

"But—"

"That's an order, Ensign," he bayed, his visage morphing to betray his inner turmoil. In that fraction of a second, Elizabeth saw distress, anticipation, antagonism—a bevy of emotions that did positively nothing to allow her to better understand the situation. Immediately afterwards, she made eye contact with the Captain and observed his struggle to reestablish an impassive expression. He acknowledged her presence with a curt nod. "Crewman." As the duo passed her position, she could hear the Captain inquire, "D Deck, Ensign?"

Hoshi made a slight noise of consternation, as if she might object, but must have decided against it. The only thing that Elizabeth heard to concluded the conversation was a muffled, "Yes, sir," and an extremely clipped "I'll be on the bridge."

Her heart skipped a beat as she instantly deduced what must have been the truth; whatever was distressing Phlox might be linked to the issue promoting the unease of the ship's Captain and communications officer. Clenching her fists to her sides, she resumed her journey with a trot. Arriving at the entrance of sickbay, she reared onto her tiptoes to gaze through the frosted transparency of the glass doors. From her diminutive height, she could view Doctor Phlox, hunched over with fingers entwined behind his back, pacing back and forth along the length of the room. From her vantage point, there were no mangled bodies of crewmen, no hulking, restrained forms of alien captives. Puzzled, she entered her identification code into a panel on the wall and stepped through the ingress.

Instantly, the doctor halted and turned to face her. "Elizabeth—" he hesitated, and even from some distance away she could see that tears yet to be spilled lingered in his eyes. She was taken aback by the manner in which he had said her name—so intimate, so ardently potent—that she only vaguely noticed him approach her, crossing the room in about half a dozen steps. He extended his hand in her direction for a tick before pulling it back, as if unsure of how to proceed. "There's been an…," he held out his palm once more, clenching and unclenching his fingers beside her arm in a fervent display of his restlessness as he searched for the correct word to convey his thoughts.

"What happened, Phlox?" her voice took on a distinctly urgent tone, as her regard alternated between his seemingly proffered hand and his strained facial features. Was he trying to do what she thought he was trying to do? Unsure of how to proceed with initiating contact, was he waiting for her to make the first move?

Without allowing herself a second moment to think, her left arm left her side, entwining her digits with his and only exerting a slight amount of pressure. She meant it to be a purely comforting gesture, and she hoped dearly that it would not be misinterpreted.

Phlox stiffened almost imperceptibly and looked down for a fraction of a second before returning the embrace, further interlacing their fingers. Their eyes met once again.

_So much for Denobulans not liking to be touched,_ Elizabeth mused silently. As she watched his features relax visibly, she repeated, "What happened?"

"There's been…" taking a deep, shuddering breath, he glanced to the privacy screen that had been shielding an individual biobed from her earlier visual analysis. "An _incident."_

Elizabeth's heart rate quickened as she desperately tried to identify the motionless form lying beyond. Unbeknownst to her, the Doctor resumed his characteristic stream of nervous chatter, saying, "I discovered it first. It's not _really_ him. It couldn't have been. The Captain and Hoshi left to fix the problem…to rescue him. There's no way for me to help until the real Ensign has been returned to Enterprise and we've been disengaged from the station—"

Reaching forward with a sudden snap of her wrist, the cloth swished to the side to reveal the still cadaver of Ensign Travis Mayweather. A quick glance at the screens above confirmed her worst fears; he was dead. Inhaling so quickly that she gasped, she raised her free hand to her mouth and clasped it there. "Oh my god! W-w-what...how?"

Doctor Phlox responded by taking her by the elbow and leading her to a set of chairs at the opposite end of the room. Turning his seat to face her, he clasped both sets of their hands together in a motion that was more consoling than anything. Gazing up to look into her now-brimming eyes, he began, "I received a call at precisely 1153 hours…"


End file.
